


play at romance

by gealbhan



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Dancing, F/F, Femslash February, Flirting, Kissing, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:07:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22377679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gealbhan/pseuds/gealbhan
Summary: “Shit. We’ve got a problem,” Hilda hisses into her earpiece. “Dorothea is here.”On the other line, she hears frantic typing followed by a hum of interest.“Huh,”says Claude.“It seems the Black Eagles have their eyes on our quarry too. Give them a warm welcome, won’t you? A little distraction never hurt anybody.”
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Hilda Valentine Goneril
Comments: 7
Kudos: 65
Collections: FE Femslash February 2020





	play at romance

**Author's Note:**

> written for day 9 of fe femslash february: melody/spy au!
> 
> title from lorde's "liability" because i'm still not over it. enjoy!

Hilda is bored.

She’s on a mission, too, but she thinks her current state of mind takes precedence over that. Being out this late not at a fun house party but a ridonkulously uptight “charity” function where the money won’t ever see any charitable organization? Ugh. Having an actual objective, with Claude bugging her about it every fifteen minutes? _Double ugh_. No one had ever warned her about how dull spy work could get sometimes.

Sure, okay, she’s in a fluffy pink dress covered in as many sequins as she could find. And getting to be a huge fake (her name tonight is “Nancy”), which she’s already done her entire life, is never not fun, especially when she gets paid for it. Plus, the food and beverages are free and unlimited. But these are evened out by the menial tasks she has to carry out before the night’s end.

Right now, she’s scanning the premises, looking for any opportunity to sneak an incriminating flash drive off their target, who happens to be the filthy rich host of this very function, rolling in extravagance and cash while the less fortunate suffer. The Golden Deer have never claimed to be modern Robin Hoods, but hey, if the shoe fits!

Physically speaking, however, Hilda’s doesn’t. She’s reaching down to adjust it when something draws her attention away from the discomfort: A laugh from across the room. One that Hilda recognizes.

It’s fake, but no one else would know, because it’s bright and beautiful and a little too loud. Yet Hilda knows every ounce of it is for show. She lifts her head—

And then, across the room, she sees her. Dark hair longer than the last time Hilda had seen her—curlier and shinier, too, spilling loose across her shoulders as she tips her head back. Face caked in mainly the type of makeup straight men think is “natural.” Crimson-lipped smile as fake as can be, bone-white teeth on full display. Save for her luxurious jewelry, gold and silver and emerald, that catches the light of the chandeliers, she’s wearing all black and red: A dress even fancier and more bejeweled than Hilda’s; lacy gloves that run all the way up to her elbows; pointed heels with stilettos as sharp as the knife Hilda is sure she has on her person. Those Eagles really love their knives.

Dorothea Arnault. One of the top agents of the Black Eagle Strike Force, as they call themselves, a covert agency to rival the Golden Deer. She’s best known for her honeypot operations, but most had been in the early days of her career, before she’d shot up the ranks courtesy of one Edelgard von Hresvelg. Hilda has seen some of her other work up close and personal, and it seems tonight will be no exception.

Well, Hilda isn’t bored anymore.

“Shit. We’ve got a problem,” she hisses into her earpiece. “Dorothea is here.”

On the other line, she hears frantic typing followed by a hum of interest. _“Huh,”_ says Claude. _“It seems the Black Eagles have their eyes on our quarry too. Give them a warm welcome, won’t you? A little distraction never hurt anybody.”_

Hilda bounces eagerly on her heels. “Are you gonna hack them? Ooh, Linhardt won’t like that.”

“ _I’m not a hacker, I’m a mastermind,”_ is Claude’s clipped reply. _“Our actual hacker is off-duty tonight.”_ Right, because this was supposed to be a simple, open-and-shut job without complications like one of the Black Eagles’ most prolific operatives showing up. Hilda has dealt with Dorothea before and can again, but still, it’s annoying. _“Besides, if anyone were to get upset, it would be someone far more troublesome than Linhardt.”_

“Ugh, you’re right. Making contact now, boss,” says Hilda, moving before Claude can say anything in response.

She feels like she’s walking through quicksand as she makes her way over to Dorothea’s little circle, gravitational forces weighing down on her. Dorothea Arnault may as well be the sun, and here Hilda is strutting into her orbit. Yeesh. But she does it anyway, because on a mission, she can’t afford to get distracted by such silly things.

Though mid-conversation with a group of well-dressed businessmen, Dorothea looks up at Hilda’s approach. Her smile grows a hair more genuine. Her posture straightens. She gives her champagne glass a twirl and takes a quick sip as she meets Hilda’s eyes.

“Fancy meeting you here,” says Hilda in just short of a purr, folding her hands at her waist to seem all demure. From Dorothea’s huffed laughter, she’s sure the illusion of innocence doesn’t fool her. Hilda glances around the group and tilts her head. “None of you mind if I cut in here, right? It’s just been so long since I’ve had time to catch up with my dear friend—” she steals a glance at Dorothea’s nametag, which shouldn’t have been necessary at an event where everyone is supposed to know everyone but is much appreciated “—Tiffany.”

“You know this woman?” asks one of the men. No one Hilda recognizes; no one important, then.

Dorothea flashes her teeth and sets her champagne down. “Oh, Nancy and I go way back. I hope you’ll excuse me.” Her heels go _click_ as she steps toward Hilda. After a moment longer of them sizing each other up, she links her arm through Hilda’s and steers them away, navigating through the crowd like a whale shark swimming through a feast of plankton. “You’re right, it’s been some time! How long again? Oh, it doesn’t matter. How have you been? You look just lovely tonight, Nancy—”

She trails off once they’re well out of earshot. Hilda manages to whisper, “Tiffany, really?”

Dorothea rolls her eyes. “Sure, Nancy. One of Lin’s poorer jokes,” she says in a dry undertone. “Don’t worry, though, I’m going to get Hubie to put gum between his keyboard keys when he least expects it.” That makes Claude crow with laughter. Hilda can’t fight a smile of her own. Dorothea clears her throat and adds, “It really has been too long since we spoke. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, y’know, this and that,” says Hilda. “You?”

“Well, what do you know? The same thing.”

They narrow their eyes at each other. Their target announces something at the head of the room, but Hilda pays no attention to what he’s saying—if it’s really that important, Claude will catch her up to speed later, however chagrined. Hilda’s focus strays from Dorothea as music begins playing and a few couples, along with a handful of singles tearing that shit up, step out. Oh, he’d pointed out the dance floor.

Hilda shoots a glance at Dorothea out of the corners of her eyes. Dorothea’s smile is polite, eyes a little glassy as they fixate on the dance floor without really looking at it; when her gaze flickers to Hilda, she tilts her head, a challenge and an offering all at once.

“ _Two heads are better than one,”_ muses Claude before Hilda can even whisper anything. _“Use it to your advantage. Maybe—”_

Hilda can’t always follow Claude’s trains of thought, what with how fast-witted and complex his plans are, but for once, she has the same exact thing in mind. Or at least she hopes so. She grins as she holds her hand out to Dorothea and asks, “Wanna dance?”

Claude chuckles. _“Attagirl.”_

For a moment, Dorothea only blinks. Hilda doesn’t lower her hand—her smile widens the longer she waits, in fact.

“I would, but—oh well. Hold on just one moment.” Dorothea pulls her phone out from a pocket on the side of her dress and taps something on it, but Hilda can see that she’s really adjusting her earpiece—turning it off, so it seems. With a playful sigh, Dorothea puts her phone back away. “Hubie has been bothering me all night long. Honestly, if he wanted to know about how things were going so badly, he should have just come himself.”

“Right? If you want a job done right, do it yourself.” Hilda’s flippant comment skirts a little too close to the truth, but she doubts anyone is paying close enough attention to read it as anything more than an adage. She presses her hand closer. “Shall we?”

Dorothea takes her hand, the soft silk of her glove fitting itself against Hilda’s bare skin. A shame, given the lotion Hilda had painstakingly applied, but she digresses. She pulls Dorothea in close and rests her free hand upon her shoulder.

“You’re leading,” says Hilda. “You’re taller, after all, and I can’t do anything with these noodle arms. See?” She lifts her hand from Dorothea’s shoulder to wiggle her arm.

Dorothea gives the aforementioned arms—not very noodle-y at all, Hilda will admit to herself and herself alone, but made up of defined muscles only accentuated by the sleeves of her dress—a dubious look. But her hand settles on Hilda’s waist. “All right.”

They weave amongst the other dancers, relaxing into a rhythm. Neither of them is focused enough to make it any fancier than swaying like middle schoolers and twisting between other couples like a pair of snakes. But they can keep up with the beat of the music well enough. They’re on the slower side, but that’s all right. It gives Hilda more time to get a good look around, keep an eye on the various players around the room, and think of her next plan of attack while keeping cautious eye contact with Dorothea.

At least, until Dorothea pulls her closer and presses close enough to whisper into Hilda’s ear. Or, no, Hilda realizes: To sing.

Hilda had forgotten to account for one thing: Dorothea’s voice. She’d started her career as a singer, talent and luck and hard work (one of which Hilda knows about; the others, not so much) carrying her from basic indie sets to the opera stage. And now, she’s singing along to the song playing under her breath, her voice a ghost-like whisper for Hilda’s ears only.

It’s not bad. It’s really, really, _really_ good, actually, but it’s distracting in a way that Hilda hadn’t expected she would have to deal with. She finds her mind scattered by the melody, steps becoming more sluggish as she resists the gentle trance the song seems to be lulling her into.

Before long, though, the song changes, and Dorothea’s voice fades with it. Maybe she doesn’t know this one. Hilda doesn’t get much longer to think about it, because then, the target himself—along with a partner in the form of a woman far out of his league—joins them on the dance floor.

The opportunity is obvious even without a heavy-handed hint from Claude. Perhaps for this very reason—or her and Dorothea’s proximity—he stays silent as Hilda makes her move. She isn’t leading, but it’s not difficult to influence their general direction. (She’s sure Dorothea is steering them toward him too, though whether that’s intentional or not, she has an inkling but can’t say for sure.) It’s easier still to _accidentally_ step too far back and bump into him, jostling the flash drive Hilda knows to be in his pocket.

He swears. Hilda takes her opportunity to break away from Dorothea and plaster on one of her most innocent expressions, making her eyes water the tiniest bit.

“Oh no! I’m _so_ sorry, sir, did you drop anything? Here, let me look,” says Hilda, already crouching to check despite his protests. She snatches the drive up and shoves it into one of her dress’s many invisible-to-the-naked-eye pockets. Like taking candy from a baby. (Not too far off.) She keeps searching the floor, though, trying out her _Ignatz loses his glasses_ impression with a frustrated pout. “Well, it doesn’t look like—oh! Is this your contact?”

“I don’t wear contacts,” says the man, waving her off. “Please, miss, you’re very generous, but—”

Hilda stands and dusts herself off. Dorothea is looking at her with something like understanding (uh-oh) and amusement (double uh-oh), but at least the target isn’t any the wiser to Hilda’s machinations. He storms off with his date in two, muttering all the while.

Well, there’s Hilda’s mission complete. _And I didn’t even have to use Freikugel,_ she thinks with glowing pride, almost patting the hidden revolver holster through her dress before thinking better of it.

She could evacuate the dance floor now, but something takes over her—a burst of confidence influenced by giddiness and pride. She takes Dorothea’s hands again and switches their roles, becoming the planet around which everyone else—including the sun herself—orbits, leading Dorothea in a more spirited dance that almost outpaces the music with a hand on her hip. Though bemused, Dorothea follows without so much as stumbling over her heels. Hilda finds herself laughing under her breath as she spins them around.

“You just had to torment someone tonight, didn’t you?” asks Dorothea, and Hilda doesn’t deny it.

“ _Good work, Hilda. Now g_ _et out of there before he realizes,”_ says Claude.

Which, duh, Hilda thinks instead of saying. But Dorothea is still here, and Hilda’s mind races for a way to get them both out. It would look super suspicious if they just left in the middle of a dance, so Hilda keeps moving, waiting it out.

Just as the song hits a peak, Hilda flexes her non-noodle arms to give an unsuspecting Dorothea a twirl and then dip her. Dorothea snaps both arms around Hilda’s neck with a startled grin. The rest of the crowd is watching them, Hilda realizes, and she preens at their polite applause for a moment before hoisting Dorothea back up and steering her off the dance floor.

Once they’ve stepped away, she leans in close—payback for Dorothea singing in her ear earlier. Except she’s not singing. No, instead, Hilda whispers with a crooked smile, “Wanna talk outside?”

“Sure thing, Nancy.” Dorothea steps back so they’re speaking face-to-face again. Her return smile is softer than Hilda had expected it to be. “I was just about to leave myself, so if you want to get out of here too—”

“Ugh, totally.” At least that part isn’t a lie. Hilda was ready to leave, like, two hours ago. “No one you’ve gotta say goodbye to first?”

Dorothea’s hand twitches toward her earpiece, but she shakes her head and links her arm through Hilda’s again. She lets Hilda lead the way out of the building. Because obviously this is only one room in a huge-ass complex with too many hallways, but Hilda has already prepared for a stealthy getaway and knows where all of the security cameras and that shit are. If Dorothea notices her quicker-than-usual pace and thinks anything of it, she doesn’t say anything. They lean into each other a little as they walk, playing the part of tipsy lovers avoiding a charge of public indecency and drunkenness.

Hilda is pretty sure neither of them takes a full breath until they step out of the front doors. The night air is brisk against her bare arms, but at least they’re gone. She won’t be home free until she’s a more respectable distance from the building, but hey, she thinks not setting off any alarms is a sign of something. They wait to catch their breaths, not bothering to untangle their arms.

“I assume your getaway van is ready to pull up any minute,” says Dorothea.

“Something like that,” lies Hilda. With Leonie’s license revoked, Lorenz is the closest thing she’d ever have to a getaway driver, and he’d laugh in her face if she suggested he take on that title. “I’m too delicate to walk all the way home, obviously.”

Dorothea drops her arm from Hilda’s and rolls her eyes. “Mm-hmm.”

“I can’t win with you, huh?” Hilda straightens. People like them don’t do goodbyes, not really, so instead of a teary farewell, she says, “Well, before I’m whisked away, is there anything else you want to catch up on? Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

“As a matter of fact,” says Dorothea, “I did have something to say.”

She steps closer. Hilda is forced to tilt her neck up—even with Hilda’s heels, Dorothea’s only add to the pre-existing difference between their heights. Dorothea reaches toward Hilda’s cheek to tuck away a stray lock of hair. Her gloved fingers drag along the back of Hilda’s ear and the side of her neck as she brings her hand back down. She meets Hilda’s gaze with a silent question, and all Hilda can do is nod.

Then Dorothea leans down and kisses her.

The feeling of their lips meeting is not an unfamiliar one, but it still startles Hilda for all of about half a second. Then she surges up, arms wrapped around Dorothea’s neck to tug her down. To any passersby—and anyone looking through the nearest security camera—they’ll look like two drunk party guests making out against the side of the building (all true except for the blood alcohol content), which Hilda backs Dorothea against. They break for the space of a breath before Hilda arches up on her heels to kiss Dorothea again.

Their relationship is like this: Hilda pushes, and Dorothea pushes back. Dorothea pulls, and Hilda pulls in the opposite direction. It is a tangled web they’ve woven themselves, and Hilda, for one, wouldn’t have it any other way.

Hilda’s sturdy arms settle around Dorothea’s waist. Dorothea places one hand on Hilda’s shoulder, steady and grounding, and the other on the back of her head, fingers toying with the loosened hair there. That hand slides down the nape of Hilda’s neck, sending shivers down her spine, and settles on her upper back.

The aggression dissipates. Hilda backs up and then leans back in, meeting Dorothea in the middle for a kiss no less passionate but softer and more tender. Her hands jump to Dorothea’s cheeks. An attempt to open her mouth only causes their teeth to bump painfully together, but the second try is much better. Were it possible, Hilda would want to stand like this all night.

But tragically, it isn’t—objects in motion, yadda yadda. And so they pull apart, more a mutual agreement than either of them breaking away. Their foreheads rest against each other as they catch their breaths.

“That wasn’t really something you had to _say_ ,” points out Hilda, even as she grins through her heavy exhales.

“True. I thought you would understand,” says Dorothea, and Hilda opens her eyes to find Dorothea just watching her, eyes considering. Dorothea steps away, neatly extracting herself from Hilda’s grasp. Her smile quirks up to the side as Hilda continues to pant. “But I suppose I was wrong. So I’ll say it out loud: I’ll see you around. Bye for now!”

What’s that saying— _when a thief kisses you, count your teeth_? While Dorothea turns, waving, and disappears into the shadows of the street, Hilda runs her tongue along them. As near as she can tell, she’s still got… however many she’s supposed to have. That figures. Dorothea isn’t a thief, per se, and even if she were, Hilda can’t imagine she would be the one on her team to figure out a way to take people’s chompers right out of their mouths.

Claude’s indistinct voice is coming from the other line of Hilda’s earpiece, which she realizes now she _had on that entire time_ , but it takes her a moment for her brain to come back online. When it does, all she hears is an amused, _“Hilda? You still there?”_

“Yup,” says Hilda, only to get no response—she’s pretty sure her not popping the P stunned Claude into silence. “Uh, Dorothea is gone now. You weren’t listening to our conversation, were you?”

“ _Don’t worry, I immediately turned it off when I heard the sound of something untoward, if that’s what you’re really asking.”_ Hilda groans as a tapping noise carries across the line—Claude’s fingers against the edge of his desk. _“Did everything else go all right? You’ve got the drive, right?”_

“Obviously! He didn’t even notice. Honestly, it’s like you don’t even believe in—” She freezes. She’d counted her teeth, but she’d forgotten—no. There’s no way, right? But—

“ _Hilda?”_ She still doesn’t respond, looking down with horror, and Claude repeats, _“Hilda? Hey, Hilda, what’s going on?”_

His concerned voice fades to white noise as Hilda feels for weight in her pocket. Nothing, but maybe she forgot which pocket it was in. She pats her entire skirt down, frantic, and still finds nothing but Freikugel’s holster and a handful of loose candy. It couldn’t have fallen out; Hilda’s pockets are too well-manufactured for that. So it must have been stolen, and the only time when anyone would have had the opportunity to do so, with Hilda distracted, would have been—

Hilda snaps her head up toward the place where Dorothea had just been. “Oh, that fucking _bitch_!”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading!! if you have time to spare, comments and kudos are always appreciated <3
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/withlittlequill) | [tumblr](https://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com)


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